Changing Tides
by EquusGold
Summary: "You're wrong there, my dear. There is yet one great quest to be had and there is yet one great dragon to be slain. I have heard a great deal about you Mhyr. You are strong and confident, brave and headstrong, There is something else also; I can feel it as I sit here beside you. Yes, I think you will change the fate of this quest, and perhaps that of the world." full summary inside
1. Prolouge

Changing Tides EquusGold

"_You're wrong there, my dear Mhyr. There is yet one great quest to be had and there is yet one great dragon to be slain. I have heard a great deal about you Mhyr, and I know that there is more to you than appearances suggest. You are strong and confident, brave and headstrong, There is something else also; I can feel it as I sit here beside you. Yes, I think you will change the fate of this quest and perhaps even that of the world."_

My name is Mhyr. That's it, just Mhyr. I'm no one's daughter; I'm no lady or a warrior. I'm not anything really. I'm just me, just Mhyr.

I have some big secrets though, secrets that I have held for a _very _long time. Firstly? I am half-elf. That's not too much of a secret; I just tend not to share the information around. I hate it. I hate _them. _If I could cut that part out of me with a serrated blade I would.

Then there's my other secret… the one that no one knows, the one that is held closest to my heart. But I'm not going to tell you that one. _What? _You thought I would just _tell _you? Just like that? If you want to know that, you're going to have to know the rest of my story as well.

But brace yourself; this is no fairy tale, no children's story. It's the product of blood, sweat, tears and heartbreak. This is the story of how I, a nobody, became a somebody. It's a story of love, loyalty and sacrifice. It's my story. But it's not about me, not really.

So, are you prepared? I'm not totally sure if _I_ am…


	2. Chapter 1

Changing Tides EquusGold

~ (1) ~

**A/N Mhyr is pronounced the same as mire, as in quagmire.**

* * *

His fist rocketed out of nowhere and grazed the corner of my jaw as I threw myself backwards gracelessly, stumbling over a chair. The pain smarted up the side of my face but there was no time to focus on it as the behemoth of a man moved in to strike again. He made to grab for me this time, but I wriggled under his lurching movement and lashed out, striking the back of his calf with a weighty kick. The man mountain grunted and spun, faster than I thought possible, his hands out and grasping for me. I dove away and his fingers latched onto nothing but the last wisps of my hair which were ruthlessly torn from my skull with sharp tugs against the sensitive skin.

The enormous man snarled again as I moved out his range, before he threw back his head and roared like some great beast. I continued moving backwards, away, until I had some semblance of space to manoeuvre in. My opponent's echoing roar sounded like that of a bear and I couldn't help but think of the accurateness of such an analogy for that is certainly what he looked like also; his girth and height surpassed that of just about any man I had ever seen, and he was coated in a thicker mane and beard than a dwarf. Black hair seemed to spout from everywhere. His body was just a compact vessel of solid muscle and I knew that if he managed to get a hold of me this fight would be over.

His malicious black eyes were fixed on me again and he readied himself, like a bull about to charge. I almost expected him to lower his head and thrash his foot against the ground a few times. But he didn't, and an instant later he was running at me, moving fast for such an immense man. I jumped at the last moment, my thin but powerful legs propelling me off the ground so that I was up high, higher than his head. I placed my heads on his shoulders as I passed and twisted my body convulsively so that one of my legs crossed his throat and cut off his windpipe. My left hand grabbed onto that foot and pulled it tighter whilst my other arm wrapped itself around his face, gripping his thick tangle of black wiry hair. My free leg came up and wrapped under his arm and across his broad expanse of chest, locking me in place. A

Already he was gasping for air that wouldn't come, his hands scrabbling for purchase against my skin, my clothes, my hair; anything. But I tucked my head in tightly behind his to keep his throat up against my leg and being so beefy he wasn't nearly flexible enough to grab a hold of me there. My clothes were tight enough that he could only scrabble for purchase. There was only one outcome to this course of events, and he should have known it full well before he ever decided to cause trouble on my roster.

Gradually his throes slowed and he went towards the ground with all the momentum of a miniature avalanche. I uncoiled myself quickly and leapt backwards out of the way, landing on my feet and watching as he crumpled to the floor, utterly unconscious. I turned away from the pitiful sight and wandered back over to the bar, wiping my hands together with the small self-satisfied smile that came from a job well done.

The barkeep raised a fuzzy brow at me as I approached.

"A bit extravagant, wasn't it?" He asked with a smirk. I shot a glance over my shoulder and shrugged in response. The bear-man's companions were still standing in the same places, identical looks of shock and bewilderment across their features.

"Perhaps, but least it kept _them_ out of the fight," I said softly, taking the four mugs that he pushed my way. I followed his instructions and swaggered to the nearest table, putting as much of that enticing, feminine sway into my walk as I could without falling over myself or looking like a complete tosser. I held my head high and smiled cheekily at the customers as I passed, as though I hadn't just been involved in settling a bar fight not a minute ago. Three of the tankards went to one table and the other went to an elderly man all dressed in grey.

He looked up at me curiously as I set the tankard down before him with a rough clunk, managing not to spill a drop of the amber coloured liquid.

"That was an impressive fight, young lady," he said with a slight smile and a twinkle in his eye. I inclined my head at his words.

"Thank you, sir, though it wasn't much of a fight as these things go," I shot him a winning grin and clasped my hands behind my back, bouncing on my toes. "Will you be needing anything else, sir?"

"Hmm… sit down and have an ale with me my dear." My brows furrowed at his words but as he pressed some coin into my palm I realised he was serious so I returned to the bar and passed the coin to the barkeep, and my utter bewilderment must have shown on my face because he turned to me and said:

"That there's Gandalf the Grey, the wandering wizard," At my look of alarm he gave a short laugh, his heavy moustache puffing in and out. "Best go see what he wants then, shan't you?"

So I took that ale and wriggled my way through the tables again until I made it back to the wizard, sliding in opposite him. I looked around fleetingly; this was easily the most secluded table, nestled underneath the stairs as it was. I tried not to fidget, tried not to show I was nervous but it was really, really hard and I don't believe he was at all fooled anyway. We sat in silence for a long moment before he finally spoke.

"You are Mhyr?" he asked and I ignored the shudder that ran down my spine, trying not to wonder _why _this wizard knew my name.

"And you're Gandalf," I felt it necessary to respond, trying to find where I should stand in this conversation. "What do you need with me?"

"Your mother was a great warrior, and you're father one of the elleth," he mused as though I had never spoken. "Yet here you are serving ale like a common wench and using the impressive abilities they gave you to settle bar fights. A waste, I think."

"My mother abandoned me, too shamed to live with a reminder that she was defeated, beaten down and raped," I snapped. He made it sound like I was the product of some great love story between the races of Men and Elves, not the spawn of a great crime. "As for my … _abilities _as you say, I am no great warrior or hero; what else am I supposed to do? Where else would you have me go?"

"You yearn to do something greater, I can feel it. This is the life you have chosen, not the life you were born to lead."

I stare at him for a good long moment, torn between laughing or running for my life. Surely this man is mad? And yet… there is a part of that _does _yearn to something with my life, a part of me that begs for adventure and travel. But it's the same strong part of me that allows me to get paid to stop bar fights, the same reckless part of me that repeatedly finds me at odds with the law. It's the crazy part of me that makes me do crazy things and it's that stubborn-arsed part of me that makes me not cope well with authority. It's that part of me that makes my life interesting…

"You forget; this is a time of peace. There are no great quests to be had or wars to be fought, nor are there any mythical beasts to slay. Not anymore."

"You're wrong there, my dear Mhyr. There is yet one great quest to be had and there is yet one great dragon to be slain." Gandalf said, with a sigh so deep that the cold seemed to draw into the room and surround them. "I would not ask this of you unless I had any other choice. I need someone with a strong heart and a strong mind. Someone who is willing to do whatever necessary, no matter how hard that decision may be. But more than anything I need someone of elvish blood for only an elleth can stay strong in the depths of Mirkwood."

I can feel my face drain, and I imagine that I am now the colour of palest alabaster, despite my olive skin tone. I imagine that I can _feel _my pupils dilating. My breath seems to freeze in my throat and my heart shrivels and dies somewhere in my chest.

"Mirkwood?" I whisper, not willing to believe. "Are you mad?"

"Quite possibly," The old wizard replies with a rather jovial smile before he turns rather serious once more. "I fear what fate will befall the quest within its depths, but there is no choice but for us to pass through. I can think of no elf who will guide us; they will not defy King Thranduil. But I believe that you, Mhyr, are strong enough."

I stare back at him, not sure how he could believe that _I _of all people could join any kind of quest. I might be able to brawl, but that's about the extent of my skills. I'm no swordswoman, or archer, I'm not a tracker or anything really. I can travel and survive well enough in the wilds but I'm not expert; I have no skills that would make me worthy to join any quest, certainly not one of such a calibre that it requires the presence of one of the Istari.

I take my first gulp of the ale but it tastes flat and bitter on my tongue. I try to wrap my head around the idea that Gandalf the Grey, a powerful wizard, believes me to be the saving grace for a quest to slay a dragon. It's ridiculous and implausible. It's impossible. This great wizard is no more than a madman and I pity the fools who are doomed to join him.

"I can't – this is the stupidest thing I have ever heard! And I work in a tavern, for the love of the Valar!" I slam my tankard back down and try to quieten myself, aware that my voice is rising to an almost frantic pitch. I stand and shove my chair out of the way, suddenly scared and angry. "Please Mister Gandalf, say no more! It is madness! Folly! I am no warrior or hero; I cannot fight a dragon nor can I lead you through Mirkwood! Please, Mister Gandalf! Whatever the reason you're doing this, leave me out of it. I won't go running of into the Wild's on some suicide mission that has nothing to do with me!"

With those last defiant words I kick the chair back in beneath the table and turn to stomp away, trying to flee before my anger fails and my excitement for such a quest overwhelms me and sends me crawling back on my hands and knees, begging for a place. It will not happen. And yet I cannot help but stop when his quiet, solemn voice drifts after me.

"You have not even asked _why," _he says, and I cannot deny that I have not even considered why anyone might want to venture through the most horrid forest in Middle Earth only to face a dragon. Against my own good council I turn back and approach the table again.

"Very well, Mister Gandalf. _Why _are you seeking to slay a dragon? Obviously it has done nothing in quite some time else I would have heard about it," I strain to make my voice quiet and icy, trying to smother the frantic rush of emotions that are all running through me; the eagerness and excitement contesting against the fear of failure and the unknown, all of them waging war, turning my stomach into a maelstrom of twisting vines.

"The dwarves seek to take back their homeland." My mind works furiously, trying to put together two and two. Mirkwood in the East, a dragon, dwarves, and a lost homeland… the answer struck me and drove the breath from my lungs like a hearty punch to the guts.

"Erebor?" I breathed and the wizard merely nodded in response. "Why now?"

"They've been waiting for over a century my dear girl. Smaug has not been seen for over sixty years."

"And since when does a fire drake die of old age?" I muttered sharply. "You think it is a good idea to provoke this beast?"

"Mhyr, there is an evil rising in the world, I can feel it. If the old enemy were to rise again, think what he could do with a dragon." The old man looked suddenly very deeply concern, and very world weary. I couldn't help but feel a deep surge of pity for him. It was his duty to watch over Middle Earth and do everything in his power to protect it from evil… for him this battle was never ending. I sighed deeply and closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose tightly.

"He would use it to destroy the remaining free folk of the East, and if no one stopped him, he would move on to the remainder of our world," Revulsion and terror rose up in me at the mere thought of it. The old enemy could only mean Sauron… "I may be half-elven, but that still doesn't make me a warrior, nor does my mother's blood. You honestly think I can make a difference on this quest of yours?"

"I have heard a great deal about you Mhyr, and I know that there is more to you than appearances suggest. You are strong and confident, brave and headstrong, and I believe that with a little training you could be a great warrior indeed. You already have many of the necessary skills. You, my dear girl, have a weight of experience about you; you know the darker side of the world, and you know it well. There is something else also; I can feel it as I sit here beside you. Yes, I think you will change the fate of this quest and perhaps even that of the world."

I couldn't help but glow a little at Gandalf's words. Never before had any type of praise been ladled upon me in such a whole-hearted, honest way; people had praised my skills before, but no one had ever commented on aspects of who I am, not in such a way. But I knew that he had obviously not chosen me on some ill-advised whim. He seemed to know at least a little about me, and I couldn't argue the fact that I'm a fast learner, particularly in relation to punching someone in the face. Maybe I could do this… just maybe.

"I will try, Mister Gandalf," I said softly, but with the most serious tenor I could manage. A broad smile grows beneath his bushy grey beard. "But I cannot make assurances. You must let me go if I need to."

I can see he isn't happy about my ultimatum. Perhaps he expected some kind of infallible loyalty from me, but that's not who I am. I have always wanted to do great things and be a great person, but I have always been limited by this aspect of my personality. I will always put myself first and foremost. Some people regarded it as a flaw and others took it as a law they must live their life by. For me it was a part of me, and not one I felt I could change. It didn't stop me from feeling exceedingly guilty at the sad expression that passed across the old wizard's face.

But he nodded, regardless and sent me back to the barkeep to get more drinks. When I returned and sat down he lifted his tankard and said:

"To quests and heroes," he said with a smile. I reluctantly clunked my heavy horn tankard against his.

"To tavern wenches and dragons," I responded with the most half-hearted smile that has ever crossed my face. At this though, Gandalf gave a hearty chuckle and took a swig of his ale.

"Oh my dear, I hope you like dwarves," I glanced up at his knowing smirk and felt my eyes widen incredulously and an outraged scowl crossed my face.

"Dwarves!? Gandalf, you never said anything about travelling with dwarves!"

* * *

That was how I came to be standing here, in the middle of the Shire, utterly lost. Tiny Halflings scurried to and fro, all of them shooting confused and rather nervous glances at me as they did. I had heard of the nervousness of hobbits, of their wariness of outsiders, but it was altogether different to experience it firsthand. Truly I could only begin to wonder why Gandalf had required that I meet him here of all places.

I looked down at the tiny scrap of parchment that I still clutched firmly in my palm, once again wondering if I was doing the right thing or if my life was just about to take a turn for the worst. I couldn't help but be slightly glad that I was utterly lost and nothing short of completely bewildered. The scratching's on the parchment had been intended to lead me to the required address, but so far it had done me no good. Internally I cursed repeatedly at my ridiculously bad sense of direction, and my apparent lack of map reading abilities. How on earth was I ever supposed to guide this group? Through Mirkwood of all places! I stared down at the seemingly illegible markings upon the page and sighed, knowing beyond a doubt that I would have to find someone to point me in the right direction.

So I started at the most obvious place, the place where _everyone _goes when seeking information or respite. I had passed the tavern an hour ago, but that had been an hour of aimlessly wandering in circles looking for something I was destined not to find on my own. I wondered if Gandalf had known and was just testing me out, but then, how could he? Fortunately for me, where my sense of direction is failing my memory wasn't too shabby at the moment – but only because I was trying to recall recent events. Anything after a few weeks is beyond me. So I rather sceptically followed my admittedly shoddy memory through the twists and bends of the Shire.

_The Green Dragon _it was called, and it wasn't altogether too hard to find once I finally walked down the correct paths. Asking for directions had probably helped a little too, but as I've already divulged I have no sense of direction so I could just as well have wandered in the complete opposite direction. Eventually though I managed to spot a sign with a miniscule green dragon on it, so that was a bit of giveaway. Inside the tavern itself was neat and tidy, comfortable too. At any rate it was far nicer than any of the places I had ever been to before. It smelled of pipe weed and quality ale.

Without a moment's hesitation I stepped up to the barkeep who smiled broadly at my appearance. I ordered only some cider, for it was still early in the evening.

"Is there anything else I can help you with, my lady?" he asked with a broad smile, showing none of the timidity of the other hobbits. I admired him for that.

"Well, I'm in need of some directions actually… I'm supposed to be meeting someone somewhere and haven't a clue how to get there," I breathed an all too dramatic sigh of frustration. "No offense, but everywhere hereabouts looks rather similar."

"You would not be the first to say so, my lady!" The hobbit grinned, his sandy curls bobbing up and down as he nodded furiously. "Oft we do get strangers coming here with need of directions!"

Well, at least I wasn't about to be regarded as utterly incompetent. So I scrounged through my mind for the name and address Gandalf had provided me with, crushing the stupid piece of parchment he had left in my palm.

"I find myself searching for a … Mister Baggins of Bag End?" I said, but undoubtedly it came out as a question. I know that Gandalf had told me the first name of this person, but I had no clue as to what it may have been. Bombo? Bilbo? Balto? Bongo? Balbo? I've not a clue.

"Ah! Well now that's an easy one! Mister Baggins lives atop The Hill; it's quite easy to find! Here, I'll draw you a map." I groaned inwardly, wanting to pound my head against the table at the very mention of the word 'map.' But the hobbit had already whirled away and I sipped my cider as I waited with utter impatience.

The hobbit was back a few minutes later and thrust a broad stretch of parchment into my hands before he smiled once more, bowed, and then scurried back to bar with my empty glass. I sighed deeply for a moment before drawing the courage to glance and the directions and was quite thrilled to find that it was an artfully illustrated piece of work that clearly showed a great many paths and landmarks as well as the appropriate way I should be going, marked in red ink just to make things that much easier. I bowed deeply to my saviour as I stood to leave and he seemed thrilled given the broad smile that danced across his features. As I walked out I happily tossed Gandalf's pathetic 'map' into the nearest fire.

The way clear now I strode happily through the gathering dusk, making good time on the well-maintained paths and roads of the Shire, oft walking on the grass verges simply because it was so soft and springy underfoot, even though that got me a few disparaging looks from the passing hobbits. But I ignored them happily as I am wont to do and continued on my way, humming a simple tune that I had learned in Gondor. Despite my best efforts though, as well as the meticulousness of the map, I still managed to get turned around three times and had to go through considerable effort to find my way back to the appropriate path. Perhaps that is the reason the hour was so late when I at last arrived.

I looked up past the gate and along the garden path and stared hard at the round door, painted green like the rolling hill that it was built into. I could hear raucous laughter within and assumed that the dwarves must have already arrived, or at least some of them. Evidently they had a far better grasp of map reading skills than I. Or they at least had more of a head start.

I didn't allow myself a moment to feel nervous about those I was about to be meeting. I didn't allow myself a single second to second guess myself for I knew that if I did I would be disappearing back into the maze of Hobbiton within moments, and I wouldn't allow myself to walk away from what could possibly be the single greatest thing to happen to me in my lifetime, my rather long lifetime, half-elven as I am.

So I took a weighty breath and pushed the gate wide open, starting up the steep though narrow path. I admired the aroma of a small patch of begonias in passing and continued up the path, and with each step I felt like I was walking closer and closer to my impending doom. I took several deep breaths once I stood before the door, breaths that were supposed to be calming. I ran a hand through my hair and tried to smooth my travelling clothes a little. In all honesty I felt like a beggar about to go knocking on a rich man's door and that bothered me. But I sucked up my pride and knocked once, twice, three-times.

The effect was instantaneous to those with keen ears. Where before there had been constant laughter and noise there was now a thick silence like all the inhabitants of the house were suddenly holding their breaths. I pricked up my ears, trying to hear an approach to the door. I wondered fleetingly if hobbits were as quiet as Gandalf claimed for I certainly couldn't hear him and my ears were sharper than those of any human.

It must have been true though for I heard nothing but then latch was drawn back and the door swung open leaving me face to face with an overly exasperated Halfling. I had seen the little folk boast many expressions in my recent foray through the Shire including frustrated, exuberant and suspicious to name but a few, but the purely infuriated look that was directed my way was overly comical upon the homely hobbit. I thought I might die from trying not to laugh but somehow managed to plaster a small, sincere smile on my face and bowed respectfully.

"Mhyr," I said shortly in way of introduction. The hobbit just stared at me, seemingly amazed that I was not a dwarf. Once again I was trying hard not to laugh. "You must be Mister Baggins? Might I come in?"

"I suppose so," he huffed in an incensed kind of way before stepping back and closing the door behind me. I fought down a grin at the lack of manners that I was admitted with; it was not what I had come to expect from the overly respectable hobbits. The inside of the hobbit hole was exquisite with dark wood and pale plaster providing a comfortable contrast. Everything was circular and carved, decorated to the last square inch. The only issue was that I felt rather a bit closer to the roof than I was altogether comfortable with, but since this was the home of a little hobbit I should not have expected much more. "You're here with Gandalf?"

"I am," I responded to his assumption. "Could you take me to him please Mister Baggins?"

The hobbit nodded quickly and turned to lead the way. The moment his back was turned I smiled to myself; the use of manners was slowly endearing me to him. I almost shuddered to think how the dwarves had treated him upon their arrival. He stopped after a moment and gestured for my which I handed over, placing my blade and sling with it upon the hook. Mister Baggins simply looked at them and the myriad of other cloaks and weapons that were hung up or strewn about and shook his head woefully.

"Gandalf didn't tell you we were coming did he?" I assumed by the look on his face.

"No, he didn't," The hobbit responded through gritted teeth. I guessed that this had already been an overly long night for him. "Gandalf is right through there with the rest of them."

"Thanks." I turned my attention away from the hobbit and continued moving down the hall and towards the door he had indicated. I could hear the hum of voices, or rather Gandalf's voice, emanating from within. The insatiably curious part of me wished to stand outside for a few moments and listen in to whatever was being said –for I had a strange feeling that it concerned me – but I forced myself to ignore that stupid part of me and stepped through the archway.

By the way twelve sets of eyes instantly fell upon me and by the expressions that danced across the rough bearded faces of the dwarves, I felt fairly safe in my assumption that Gandalf had been talking about me. For some reason, that bothered me.

"Ah, Mhyr! It _was _you." Yep, definitely me they were talking about.

"The one and the only Mister Gandalf," I replied with a wry grin. I turned to the rest of the table and bowed low. "Good evening gentleman. My name is Mhyr. I hear you have a dragon problem?"

The dwarf nearest to me let out a loud guffaw. "I like this lass!" he said and I couldn't help the smile that crept across my face. He looked like a likeable enough fellow with the spark of good cheer in his eye. He wore an enormous floppy hat which I couldn't help but admire.

"Thankyou Mister…?" The dwarf laughed again and smiled broadly.

"Bofur lass, just Bofur." I nodded in response and instantly decided that I like this dwarf. That was another thing about me; I rarely sat on the fence about how I feel about someone. I either like them or I don't, there's just no two ways about it, and once I've decided how I feel about you, well let's just say that's where my stubborn streak comes into play. It's much easier for someone to lose my affections than it is for them to gain them, that's for certain.

"Well, thankyou Bofur," I returned his crinkly-eyed smile and bounced on the balls of my feet.

"Yes, thankyou Bofur," Gandalf said, cutting in on our little moment. I resisted the urge to scowl in his direction. Annoying, interfering wizard. "Now, allow me to introduce the remainder of the company."

Then he went around the table from Bofur's immediate right. First there was Ori, a young looking dwarf who looked awfully studios. I had to wonder if he was a good choice for this quest given his softer appearance, knitted scarf, mittens and all. But he looked kindly enough, shooting me a decidedly nervous grin.

Beside him was a dwarf with flaming red hair, probably more hair on a single individual than I'd ever seen in my life. His name was Gloin He openly glowered at me, seeming to dislike me well enough just because I was a stranger. Clearly that did nothing to endear him to me so I narrowed my eyes and moved on, nearly doing a double take as I did so. This dwarf was all black and white hair with a slightly dazed and crazed look in his eye. Not that I could blame him what with the axe blade securely wedged into his skull. Gandalf said he was Bifur, cousin of Bofur, and I was on the receiving end of a genial nod, though he looked at me as though I wasn't actually there.

Next around the table were two younger looking dwarves who Gandalf introduced as the brother's Fili and Kili, brothers of course. They smirked and bowed their heads –one dark, Kili I think, and the other fair - in tandem and I couldn't help the small grin that was drawn onto my own face. Rouges. Just down from them and seated at the furthest end of the table was an enormously fat dwarf with ginger hair. His heavy beard swung across is voluptuous gut in a single looping braid. He spared me a glance before returning to the plate before him. I doubted there was much that could come between him and food. His name was Bombur and he was brother to the friendly, hatted dwarf, Bofur. I suppose that made him cousin to Bifur also.

Then there was Nori, with possible the strangest hair style I have ever seen, done up in three Mohawk _things _as it was. He was brother to Ori but aside from hair colour I could see few similarities. He just sent me a shifty look and I had the sudden urge to both wrap myself in a cloak and hide my coin purse in my smalls, not that such a thing would discourage him; perhaps quite the opposite. Something about him screamed _untrustworthy _and I had to fight down the primal urge that made me want to curl back my lip and snarl.

Then there was Balin, a venerable looking old dwarf with snowy-white hair and a matching beard. He smiled kindly at me though there was a wary crease about his eyes, highlighting the scar on his forehead. I think he looked frailer than he actually was. Balin set next to Gandalf himself.

Grey-haired and wizened was Oin who held a trumpet to his ear and gave me a curious look that I didn't know what to make of. Gandalf also forced me to note that he was the company's healer, and I couldn't help but wonder if the deafness was a blessing or a curse. Was it a good or a bad thing not to hear your patients scream in agony?

Then there was old Balin's younger brother Dwalin, though they looked nothing alike. Dwalin was a warrior, undeniably; his arms were thick and muscled and his balding, tattooed head was creased into a perpetual frown, the scar upon his brow thick and deep. When he turned to look me square in the face I couldn't help but notice half his ear was missing. He scowled at me and returned his sights to the plate before him. No, he was definitely not on my _friend _list. Let's just say that I was not wishing to be left alone anywhere near that guy.

Then lastly Dori was sitting there all but trying to murder me with his eyes. Older brother to both Nori and Ori I had a feeling his elaborate hairstyle was squeezing his head too tightly and giving him temperament issues. His animosity went way beyond that of distrusting strangers. I didn't allow myself to react though; even though he appeared rather homely –despite the glower – there was an undeniable sense of strength even as he sat. I had a feeling that I shouldn't be on his bad side for any longer than necessary.

I was torn between both sides of the table it seemed. The side where Fili and Kili sat seemed welcoming whilst the dwarves on the other side mostly seemed like they wanted to do me in or at least through me out of the nearest window. I think opinions on me were split about fifty-fifty and despite the oddness of the situation I was facing, I couldn't help but think those odds could be far worse. At least I had Gandalf on my side. That's got to be worth a few brownie points.

"Now that we're all introduced, would you care to join us my dear? We had just begun dinner before you arrived." Gandalf said at last after giving me a short – too short – moment to process everything. I hoped to high heaven that none of the dwarves moved during the meal, for I was going to screw up all of their names. Badly. But I inclined my head and Bofur leapt up with a grin and wink before disappearing off somewhere. He was back moments later with a chair which he squished in between him and Dori, which I wasn't immensely happy about.

Shooting the grey-haired dwarf an apologetic smile as I squeezed in beside him and promptly had a plate thrown down before me and a tankard pushed into my palms. As soon as that was done though the relative silence fractured and the dwarves were suddenly as noisy as they had been before I knocked on the door. The change was startling to say the least but it seemed good natured for the most part. Bofur himself seemed resolute in his attempt to create a mountain upon my plate. Dori had at least stopped during to incinerate me with his gaze which was turned upon his own plate now.

A round of raucous laughter went around the table and I glanced up, a large bite of some kind of tart wedged in my mouth, and saw Oin -?- blowing ale from his ear trumpet, the dwarf beside him slapping down his now-empty tankard and pounding the table with his fists in his laughter. An unbidden smile sprang to my face at the jovial exuberance on the bearded faces around me. No wonder the hobbit had disappeared so quickly, grumbling about unruly quests and a severe lack of table manners; Hobbits, though hearty partiers, were respectable and courteous guests as a general rule, nothing like this dwarven rabble.

I smiled into my tankard as I looked over them. Perhaps this journey would not be so bad after all… I only hoped I could live up to Gandalf's expectations, and that no one discovered _too _much about me. That would make for an overly uncomfortable conversation indeed.

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**A/N Now that I'm rediscovering some of my writing skills using my other fan fic, I've decided to post something decent :D I hope you like it since Mhyr has quite the journey to take you all on, battles to fight and one hell of a romance to be had. Hopefully it doesn't sound too generic at the moment. **

**Priority for this story will be based on response, so if you want it updated make sure you say so!**


	3. Chapter 2

Changing Tides EquusGold

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**A/N Wow, I am so glad that you all seem to be so interested in my story! That means a heap to me, considering there's only been one chapter thus far.**

**So thankyou to Lumet, TerribleSuccubus, obsessed reader, ElenyaSilverstar , vanugh, ErikaLynne, yukisawer.7 and WolvesKey.**

** yukisawer.7: Thanks! Hopefully I fulfil expectations with Thorin!**

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The meal quieted down considerably after some time as the dwarves concentrated more on their food – rather than tossing it across the room - and some idle chatter sprang up as a result. I stayed well out of it in the beginning, feeling like I had no place to be leaping into these stranger's conversations. But it seemed they had none of the same reservations about dragging me into conversations. I wasn't really okay with this and for the most part I left my answers as vague as possible, usually only a non-committal 'hmm' or, later on, a grunt that could have meant just about anything.

Surprisingly, or unsurprisingly as it were, it was Nori who spoke up first, calling down the length of the table to me.

"So, where are you from Mhyr?" A shiver ran down my spine at the way he said my name and not a good shiver either. The kind of shiver that feels like someone tap-danced over the top of your grave. I resisted the urge to fling the fork that lay unused on the table. I had quickly adopted the dwarf method of treating everything as finger food.

"East," I said, the words probably indistinguishable from a grunt, but then again these were _dwarves. _

"East?" Bofur repeated interestedly from beside me. I caught myself mid-glare and schooled my features back into a relatively blank mask, save for the twitching eye brow. The one thing I hated almost as much as those goddamned elves was somebody asking me about my past.

"Aye, East," I nodded my head in reluctant affirmation, shooting Gandalf a deep look to try and clue him in on how pissed I was becoming. He skilfully avoided catching my eye and so was also spared from being burnt into a withered crisp. If I didn't know better, he was trying to stay out of this conversation to find out more about me. But of course I _did _know better, so there must have been some other totally logical explanation.

"Where in the East?" One of the younger dwarves piped up, leaning on the table with a forgotten leg of chicken half way to his mouth. It was the dark haired one, Keeli maybe? Whatever his name was he was on the receiving end of the flattest look I could manage, the type of look that politely said 'back of now while your limbs are still attached.' He, and the rest of the dwarves, were either stupid or oblivious to such expressions for I now seemed to be the sole centre of attention with thirteen gazes fixed upon me. Well, twelve gazes; Bifur was raptly staring at the ceiling, seemingly entranced by something no one else could see.

"Far, far in the East," I waved my hand dramatically, almost knocking Bofur's floppy hat of his head. I couldn't well tell these dwarves that I was born in the city of Dale over three centuries ago, that would be a pretty big giveaway for them and part of me didn't doubt that the more astute minds among them would be able to make the links fairly quickly. But I knew more of an answer would be required than the one I had just provided since each of the bearded faces around me, Gandalf included, were beginning to look rather disgruntled. So I emphasised a little without actually lying. "Not overly far from that mountain of yours."

Now _that _got a response out of them.

"You're from Esgaroth?" Ori asked incredulously before he realised what he'd done, squeaked and ducked back out of sight behind Bofur again. I tried to stifle a smile at his reaction, but had a feeling I wasn't altogether too successful.

If they sought a specific answer to the young one's question they were disappointed, for I did no more than grunt once again. I may be many things, but I have never been a liar, not about myself. I have never cared nor had cause to try.

The dwarves, for the most part, seemed to take it for a confirmation though I was on the receiving end of several narrow looks. I realised that their people, secretive and reserved though they generally tend to be, pride themselves on honesty and forthrightness, and expected others to deal with them in the same way. I don't think they appreciated my ambiguity at all. Dori had gone so far as to move his chair as far across and away from me as possible, though given the serious lack of space around the table he was now sitting uncomfortably close to Dwalin who didn't look at all pleased with the seating arrangements.

My hazy answers had served their purpose though; the dwarves lost almost all interest in talking to me, aside from the occasional side question whereupon I was asked if I'd been there or seen that. The dwarves, for the most part, seemed to be amazed that I'd travelled so widely and yet not seen half the things they mentioned. What I didn't mention was that I travelled to stay inconspicuous; it doesn't take long for someone to notice that the barmaid in the local tavern hasn't aged a day for the last twenty years. It meant that whilst I had travelled quite a lot over the years I had stayed away from other people and so not explored nearly as much as I could have. I kept to myself, living in the wilds or bunking at the inn if I managed to have work.

It was also safer for other people if I kept my distance, especially at night. At night I tended to become … restless. The hustle, bustle and chaos served well to burn off some of that extra fire, but sometimes I kind of just slip, and it all comes undone. I still remember the time I slipped up and it cost someone … dearly. I sigh and close my eyes, retreating into myself as the memory washes over me.

_Drunk. I was definitely drunk. Absolutely wasted, one might say. I can hardly see, the walls are tilting in at strange angles and the floors seem to be drifting up towards the ceiling. There's a buzzing in my veins, in my head. A pulsing behind my eyes. Yes, I am definitely, unequivocally pissed. Smashed, bashed, plastered, sloshed, totalled. Absolutely schnockered. Whatever you want to call it, I can tell that by tomorrow I'm going to have the master of hangovers. I wonder if I can make it to the top of the stairs before I pass out. Probably not. _

_Then there's a hand under my arm trying to pull me upwards. My world spins and somewhere in the mix I realise that I've sunken to my hands and knees and am crawling along like a dog. _

"_Woof!" I say, though it comes out so slurred it's impossible to tell what it should have been. My head lolls sideways and thuds into the wall, sending the pulsing behind my eyes into overdrive even though I can't feel any pain. I'll probably feel it tomorrow. _

"_Idiot." Kelsa grumbles before trying to pull me up again. It's no use; she's to slight and far too wasted. She lets out a ridiculous squeak as she tips over and ends up next to me on the floor. Her hair is dark, like ebony, and her eyes a blue so bright it's like seeing the sky every time you look at her._

_Somehow we get to the top of the stairs, pushing and pulling each other and laughing uproariously the entire while. We're at the top and I laugh before I feel the world tilt backwards. Kelsa's eyes widen and she snatches at me, stopping me from falling back down and probably breaking me neck. The young woman drags me towards my room and I stumble after her, walking into walls each time we turn a corner. _

_We're at my door and I'm fumbling through my pockets for my key. Kelsa is holding me up, standing close so that I can't keel over again. I don't think she's quite as drunk as me. But she looks awfully flushed; her cheeks glowing like crimson apples. I find the key, force it into the keyhole and the shove the door open, perhaps harder than necessary. Okay, much harder than necessary. The movement unbalances me and I fall forward and Kelsa can't hold me. I hit the floor roughly, landing on my back with the air driven from my lungs. The ceiling swims above my head for a moment, but then Kelsa are landing on top of me. _

_She's not very heavy and so it's not uncomfortable as she lies still for a moment, trying to put her muddled mind back together. Then the moments over and she props herself up, still lying on top of me. She's smiling broadly, wider than she ever does. Her teeth are perfect, neat white rows that shine in the firelight. Her eyes are a ghostly grey in this lighting. She's got her hair falling all over her face. She's … kissing me? _

_It takes my drunken mind a goodly while to process what's happening, but when it does it demands that my body respond. So now I'm kissing her back and god's she's so beautiful! Her lips are so soft, feather-light against my own. Her hands move in under my tunic, her fingers drifting over my skin. I've never kissed a woman before, never touched one in this way, not in all my long years, but I like it, it's different. Softer, more sensual. But there's a part of me, the sober, reasonable part of me, that's telling me this doesn't feel right. It's telling me that if I was in my right mind I would never do this, it's such a, such an … _elvish _thing to do._

_That one word is like an ocean of cold water being tossed over me. I freeze beneath her. My lips still as though they've been snap frozen, my hands leap of her skin like I've been burned. In my mind that word keeps chanting over and over: _elf, elf, elf.

_Then my body begins to burn, but not with passionate desire. I burn with intense, passionate hatred. Hatred for elves, hatred for _her, _for what she did to me. It may have seemed unreasonable to blame Kelsa for what happened, but I was drunk and venomous, and everyone knows that's a bad combination. But I didn't care, I just wanted someone to pay, and since I couldn't see myself getting my hands on a thrice-accursed elf anytime soon, she would suffice. _

_It's like there's another in control of my actions, a puppeteer pulling the strings. My hands came up and wrapped around her throat, my lip pulled back off my elongating canines. I could feel the muscles throughout my body coiling, shifting, becoming stronger. My bones began to grind against one another, the ligaments pulling and relocating. The girl's eyes widened and she let out a strangled 'gurk' as I tightened my hold. Those pretty blow eyes widened so much I thought they might pop out of her head. The haziness in my mind was abating, instead replaced by sheer, unadulterated anger and hatred._

_I stood in one swift movement and tossed her from me, not even watching as she bodily flew across the room. I clutched my head and curled in on myself, closing my eyes. The pain, I knew, was only fleeting though excruciating, but the reward was oh so glorious. When I opened my eyes again the world was sharper, more vibrant. The girl was curled on the floor against the wall, huddled up and staring at me with more terror than I had seen for a long time. _

_I gave her my approximation of a sharp toothed grin and stalked towards her. My claws let out little clicking sounds against the floor boards. I took my time; nothing else existed save me and this whelp of an elf-lover. At the thought of elves a snarl grew in my chest and ripped up my throat. The girl shrunk away, unshed tears glistening in her eyes. She scrabbled at the wall as though it could help her. The fool was too afraid to even scream as I came closer, looking for vengeance and blood… the beast was so happy to be free once again…_

The shock of cold liquid down my front caused me to jolt back to full awareness, eyes quickly taking in the spilled tankard and ale that was rapidly soaking my tunic and trousers. I flushed, the dwarves all staring at me, seemingly torn between laughter and something that may have been concern. I must have lashed out during my 'spaced out' moment and knocked the tankard onto myself.

"Sorry." I mutter, standing quickly and all but sprinting from the dining room. Mr Baggins is just around the corner and I almost rush straight into him.

"Mr Baggins, might I borrow you bathroom?" I gasp out, feeling distinctly uncomfortable with all the wetness coating my skin and clothes. Bilbo looks caught off guard for a moment –though with all of these dwarves in his house he should really be expecting the unexpected – before he nods and hurries off in the opposite direction. I trail after him, holding my shirt out from my body and pulling the sopping crutch of my pants away from the skin.

The Halfling stops outside of a plain, circular, unassuming door that looks like all the others in his house and gestures to it, pointedly not looking at me as I do a strange hop down the hall, still holding onto the crutch of my pants. "The bathroom's in here. There's soap, water, towels, whatever you need."

I smile, the message in his words evident: 'everything you need is in there, just please don't bother me again.'

"Thank you, Master Baggins." I say. He nods stiffly and disappears down the far end of the hall. I wait a moment before heading back in the opposite direction and grabbing my bag from in the entryway. I waddle uncomfortably back to the bathroom – decent short term memory be praised – and shut myself inside. I waste not a single moment, stripping down and tossing my clothes over the side of the empty tub.

There's a still of heated water and I take a jug and pour some of it into the wash basin, noting the slight aromatic fragrance in the water. It smelled like… jasmine? So long as it got rid of the stench of ale though, I didn't really care. Along one of the shelves there are a dozen or so blocks of soap, all of them of varying hues and scents. I chose a green one that has the sharp scent of apple, hoping it's pungent enough.

It's not that I care what the dwarves think, or the hobbit or Gandalf. I couldn't care less if I smelled like a tavern to them. There's just the slight problem that my nose is keener than any of theirs and I don't particularly want to smell like that for the rest of the journey. For after setting out from here, who knows how long it will be till there's anything better than a cold stream again?

With that in mind I give myself a more thorough cleaning than I probably needed too, some of my skin tinged slightly pink from the vigorous scrubbing I subject it to. Yet there's no way I can scrub away the memories, those dark, painful memories. I was right though; the apple scented soap did a nice job of hiding away any unsavoury scents, and that had to count for something. I wonder if the hobbit will notice if some of his soap comes with me…

Sighing deeply I rub away the moisture with one of the excessively fluffy towels, marvelling in the soft, downy texture of it. It reminds me of a thick coat of fur… a sudden wave of longing passes through me and I swallow, closing my eyes and taking a meditative breath. I toss the towel back on the rack – Mister Baggins will probably hang me for it later – and slipped into a fresh set of clothes. A soft woollen undershirt for warmth in a very generic grey, with a tight fitting maroon tunic covers my top half, with my breasts tightly bound underneath for comfort and convenience. Then there's my brown half-leather, half-woollen pants, also tight fitting. They're bound tightly around my calves to stop them from slipping up and down. My long leather coat is hung in the hall so I don't have to worry about that.

I take a moment to stare into the elegantly adorned mirror and wonder what the dwarves see when they look at me. I know, by human standards, that I am pleasing to the eye with a tiny waist and a slim build, but breasts that are ample for my size. I'm of average height, perhaps four of five inches over five foot, which left me at a bit taller than the dwarves – considerably taller in a couple of cases.

My skin tone dark, darker than most people's; I heard it described as 'olive' once. I'm fairly certain I got it from my mother, since I can't imagine any elf without that fair, flawless skin of theirs that looks as though it's never seen daylight. In contrast though, my hair is very elvish, a honey blonde. It's braided back, all of it. Every piece of my hair is drawn back from my scalp in a myriad of tiny braids, each of the tipped by a small metal bead. It's tied back, like it usually is, up high in my head, so my braids swing and clink as I walk. It's rhythmic and musical, quite beautiful, but then that's just my opinion. More than once someone's threatened to shave me, or tear my hair out by the roots. Of course they hadn't _known _me, and had left that particular conversation with two black eyes or a broken jaw.

Speaking of eyes, my own were a deep cerulean blue, though paler on the outside. That was another thing from my father I think, but then it's only a guess. Around my eyes are lines, lines of laughter, pain, of life in general. I've always thought my face too thin, too angular to be pretty with its sloped nose, thin lips and overly large eyes, but then men are often focused on what lies several inches below ones face.

But I suppose that's why I was trying – key word 'trying' – to look at myself in an unbiased perspective, as a my new companions might. I didn't doubt that I would be too thin, too tall, too hairless for their taste, but that didn't matter; they're dwarves and I'm … not. None of them are even reasonably attractive anyway. Well, except for the young two, the blonde and the dark haired ones, but they were too exuberant, too childish for my tastes.

Urgh, why was I even thinking this!?

I stared sullenly back at my reflection for a long moment, pushing those thoughts to the furthest, deepest, most inaccessible reaches of my mind and almost daring myself to dredge them up again. Doubtlessly that wouldn't end well for any side of my mentality.

Smiling grimly to myself – for I am undoubtedly losing my mind, if I haven't done so already – I crossed to the door, leaving my now-clean, though wet, clothes hanging on a small rack. I leaned my head against the cool, wooden door and my smile brightened considerably, the beginnings of a rowdy dwarven song reaching my ears. I stepped outside in time to catch the sound of the hobbit crying: "and can you not do that? You'll blunt them!" amidst the sounds of rhythmic stomping, clapping, clanking and laughter.

I stepped into the main hall in time to duck a flying bowl and hear Bofur remark: "Ooh, do you hear that lads? He says we'll blunt the knives!" To which the other dwarves all sniggered. I stepped back into alcove – after nearly getting my head taken off by a plate that went whizzing past, courtesy of Fili, or was it Kili? – and contented myself to watch, the hobbit blustering about trying to retrieve his flying crockery. I had seen enough drunken dwarves settle down to an improvised song and dance enough times to know that the hilarity of it was worth the collateral damage. Most of the time.

I fear that Mister Baggins didn't feel the same way as he stared, aghast, particularly when one of the dwarves – for the love all things, was it _Fili _or _Kili? _– began to sing, his pipe still held in one hand. His brother – whichever name he went by – joined in a moment later, tossing another plate.

_Blunt the knives, bend the forks,_

_Smash the bottles and burn the corks_

_Chips the knives and crack the plates,_

_That's what Bilbo Baggins hates! - _So the hobbits name _was _Bilbo. The hobbit in question was beginning to look seriously worried for his mother's dishes as they went sailing over his head and yet the song continued to build in momentum.

_Cut the cloth, tread on the fat,_

_Leave the bones on the bedroom mat_

_Pour the milk on the pantry floor_

_Splash the wine on every door! – _Here I watched as Fili and Kili – I'm still indecisive about which is which – took the hallway with a series of flips and jaunty, acrobatic movements, still catching and throwing plates with seemingly gay abandon. They winked at me in unison as they went passed and I couldn't help but laugh at their antics. Somewhere in the middle of it all, young Ori staggered past with an enormous mound of dishes, desperately trying not to drop them. His uncertainty was an odd contrast to the exceedingly coordinated dwarves who were throwing the dinnerware like there was no tomorrow.

_Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl,_

_Pound them up with a thumping pole_

_And when you're finished if they are whole,_

_Send them down the hall to roll! _– I marvelled at the dwarves ability to stay coordinated with all twelve of them cavorting about like fools.

_That's what Bilbo Baggins hates! _–They finished, though it was more of a shouted last line than any kind of singing, but I think they were all too busy laughing to care. I know I was. Now that they had stopped romping about I edged into the dining room doorway in time to see Bilbo's befuddled yet awestruck expression, making me laugh all the harder. I saw one or two of them laughing so hard that tears were being squeezed from their eyes, for of course the dwarves would never have disrespected such a good host by going along and breaking all of their dishes. Instead there was an enormous pile of scrupulously clean crockery pile in the centre of the table, chuckling dwarves all about it.

I put my arm up to lean on the archway when I noticed that my beaded bracelet was missing. Instantly my eyes sought out the shifty looking dwarf with the pointed hair, though I knew that the piece wasn't even worth stealing. The reasonable part of me recognised that I must have left it in Bilbo's bathroom so I turned and made my way down there, not turning back even when I heard a loud, heavy knock upon the front door of the hobbit hole. The dwarves were suddenly hushed, as though someone had flicked a switch, much as they had when I had arrived.

My insatiable curiosity made me want to turn around and go find out who it had been, but I forced myself to keep walking, knowing that if I left my bracelet now I would undoubtedly forget about it, and that I refused to do.

So I stepped into the bathroom and wanted to smack my head against the wall when I couldn't see it anywhere. I dropped my hands to my pockets and even checked my other wrist, but it definitely wasn't on my person which meant it had to be there somewhere. So I looked behind the wash basket, under my wet clothes, under the towel rack, upon the soap shelf and in the vanity. I looked in the tub, in the basin, even in the water still. Then I got to my hands and knees and looked under everything, cursing the way everything down near the floor was so dark. But my eyes are sharp and I spotted in underneath the tub, lying there innocently on the floor like it hadn't caused me all of this trouble.

I huffed and dropped to my stomach – like the rest of the hobbit's house, the floor was fussily clean, even underneath the bath – and reached out, cursing my short arms when I almost had to half jam my head under there. Finally my fingers scrabbled on the edge of it and it scooted a little closer till I could drag it out with my fingertips. I stood up and jammed the stupid thing on my left arm, tentatively running my other hand over the beads. They were a mix of ceramic, wooden and glass, all different hues and colours which created quite the mismatched appearance. Every fifty years I would add another row, for that was how many of the tiny beads it took to encircle my wrist. It was a way for me to keep track of my life and time as it slipped away from me. This was my last year before I added another row.

As such it was precious to me, the most precious of my worldly possessions, and it was an immense relief to have it back on my person where it belonged. Contented now, I smooth out my tunic and trousers and removed myself from the bathroom, strangely eager to meet the stranger who had come to the door. All evening I had thought that the company had been gathered already, but now it seemed quite apparent to me that there was something missing. A leader.

From what I know of dwarves they are very tribal, not making any decisions without the consent of a strong leader, one who had proven themselves diplomatically, as a person and, of course, on the battlefield. That was what had been missing yesterday. None of the dwarves had possessed the kind of presence that I thought would encompass a dwarven leader.

Said dwarf had his back to me when I approached from down the hall, creating each of his companions in a personal way that made me think that perhaps these dwarves were all, or mostly, kin. He wore a navy tunic with armour underneath and an empty scabbard hung at his side. He was taller than most of his companions, save the battle-scarred one, Dwalin. His hair hung to his shoulder blades in thick waves, dark as a raven's wing. The deep colouring of his hair made my mind flash back to Kelsa and I cringed, but forced myself to put on an amiable face as Gandalf spotted me.

"Ah! Miss Mhyr has finally decided to return!" he exclaimed and I raised my eyebrows dubiously in response. "Mhyr, allow me to introduce Thorin Oakenshield, the leader of this company."

His name was familiar to me, though I could not for the life of me place it. Then he turned to me, one eyebrow arching in the beginnings of a rather sceptical look, and I was struck by the fact that his face seemed familiar also. Yet I could not place that either. So I did the only thing one in my position could do and dropped as elegant a curtsy I could manage, tugging on the edge of my pants in the way a woman does when she's not in her skirts – not that I'm ever in skirts anyway, so I've become rather adept at these little curtsies, hilarious though they may be. He looked me up and down like a man appraising stock and I became distinctly aware of my less than pleasing appearance, and, most particularly, my dirty bare feet covered in scratches and blotchy marks from the road.

"A pleasure to meet you, I'm sure, Mister Oakenshield," I said with a smile, tilting my head in a way that made the clasps in my hair clink together. He just looked at me sceptically, icy blue eyes drilling into me with more weight than words could ever hold.

"I'm sure." He says, and I bite back the part of me that wants to say 'Now, now, no need for sarcasm,' in favour of dropping my feminine dignity and folding my arms across my chest, smile sliding from my face the instant his gaze moves away from me. I blatantly ignore the varying looks I receive from the rest of the company, instead watching their leader as he turns back to Gandalf as though I had never existed. The selfish female part of me that constantly screamed for attention wanted to take up the nearest object and throw it at him, the nearest object being a rather sturdy looking wooden carving of … was that supposed to be a deer? Or a lizard?

"You never told me our fifteenth companion was to be a woman." The stoic looking dwarf leader said, folding his own arms across his chest and staring at the wizard. Gandalf merely let out something that might have been a scoff.

"You needed a guide; I found you one." He said, levelling a stern look at the dwarf before him. "That she is a woman is of no consequence. Mhyr has more to offer to this quest than most. I did not choose her because of some fanciful whim."

That the wizard parroted the exact thoughts I had possessed months ago when he had first met me was not lost upon my ego. Neither was the fact that Thorin inclined his head to Gandalf and accepted me without another word said. Once all of the dwarves had retreated down the hallway and back to the dining room I glanced up at Gandalf who still stood there, as well as Bilbo who huddled against one wall looking even more disgruntled than before, and I smirked broadly.

"Your dwarves all seem to love me so," I barked a soft laugh, unfolding my arms and stepping up to the wizard who simply smiled at me. "You truly think I can do this?"

"I do." He says shortly in response, his gaze soft upon me. "You're stronger than you know Mhyr. I believe in you, even though…"

"Even though there's something about me that I'm not telling you," I finish, having understood perfectly what he meant.

"Yes."

"Well, in that case, you're going to have to trust me," But can any of them really trust me? "And if, at some point on this quest, I have need of my secret I hope you will understand why I have hidden it from the world."

"And why you have hidden _yourself _from the world," This wizard is pretty good at reading between the lines, I'll give him that. I force myself to retain a neutral expression as I gazed back at him, Bilbo utterly forgotten in the duration of our rather weird conversation. "Perhaps you will learn how to live on this quest, my dear girl."

I shoot a quick glance down at the bead bracelet that clung to my wrist, though by now it was slowly creeping up the length of my forearm as time passed, and felt unbidden and unwelcome tears spring to my eyes briefly. "That would be nice, Mister Gandalf."

A silence prevailed, though not altogether uncomfortable, and then when it was realised nothing else was going to be said we moved down the hall back to the dining room. The dwarves had already seated themselves again and, to my chagrin, had almost all moved places. Thorin had taken up my seat so I followed Gandalf to his left and, when the wizard had seated himself at the low, well for my standards, table I stood between him and the wall. My neck and shoulders had to be hunched over so I could fit so I slid down the wall a little and leaned heavily on it. Bilbo had hidden away behind Gandalf and his little stool took up much of the space in the alcove we crammed ourselves into.

In the end I gave a hearty sigh and fully slid down the wall till I sat on the floor, my legs sprawled out between Gandalf and Bilbo. I squirmed a little, the hard floor digging into my buttocks uncomfortably but I stilled once the soft conversation had died down. The dwarves were all grumbling about the news that Thorin had brought with him, about someone called Dain, but I wasn't overly interested.

"They say this quest is ours and ours alone." Thorin said, in his steady, methodical way of speaking. I realised that the dwarves had been hoping for some other help, probably from one of the dwarf lords or something, but had been denied. I felt a surge of pity for the stout, bearded fellows. Thirteen, not counting the hobbit –whatever he may have to do with things – or the wizard – was he even part of the company? – no, thirteen were not good odds to be trekking across the map and then confronting a dragon at journey's end. Not for the first time I wanted to just pack up and leave. No doubt Mister Baggins was hoping I, and all of the dwarves, would hurry up and do just that. Which was perhaps why I was so surprised when he spoke up, especially in front of the entire group.

"You're … going on a quest?" he asked, and I sent a bewildered look towards Gandalf, who duly ignored me. Did the Halfling not even know why his cosy little hobbit-hole had been overrun by dwarves and why his dining room had been turned into an impromptu meeting hall?

"Bilbo, my dear fellow!" Gandalf exclaimed as though he too had not expected the hobbit to speak up. "Let us have a little more light."

Mister Baggins nodded almost absently and bustled off, though having to clamber over my legs to do so. A minute later he was back holding a candle which he held low over a map that Gandalf procured from within his robes.

"Far to the East," Gandalf intoned, speaking as though none of us knew where we were going. But perhaps it was more for the hobbit's benefit than ours. "…over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands lies a single solitary peak."

"'The Lonely Mountain.'" Bilbo read, moving the candle a little closer. I hoped for his sake that he didn't drop the candle and burn the map to a cinder.

"Aye, Oin has read the portents," the red headed dwarf Gloin said amidst the grumbles and rolled eyes of his companions. It was pretty evident how much faith most of these dwarves put in the portents that Gloin spoke of. "and the portents say it is time."

"Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain, as it was foretold," the one that I assumed was Oin said, jumping in to reaffirm his brother's claims. "'When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end…'"

"I have never heard of ravens being anything other than the prophets of death," I frowned, not quite understanding what the ravens had to do with anything. Balin, fortunately, took pity on my obliviousness.

"The birds themselves don't have anything to do with the prophesising; ravens used to live on the Lonely Mountain when our people dwelled there. That they're returning means – "

"That they believe the mountain to be safe once again," I finished. There were rumours that the Lord of Dale and his ancestors could actually communicate with the thrushes. "So the ravens were the birds of Erebor in the same way that the thrush was the bird of Dale?"

"Aye lass, though it intrigues me as to how you know such a thing," Balin's eyes had narrowed now and I inwardly cursed at myself. I hoped none of them could see the way my brain suddenly scrabbled for an excuse. Then I remembered the ambiguous answer I had given about where I was from.

"I had thought we already established that I was from the East?" I gave a small smirk. "It is well known that Girion's descendants still live and that the line of the Lord of Dale has always been able to communicate with thrushes."

Well, maybe I was overstating that a little, but I had known Girion and had seen his child chattering ceaselessly with one of the birds. There was no reason such a thing would be lost through dilution of the bloodline over the years. Balin looked like he was going to say something else but fortunately I was saved by Bilbo, of all people.

"What is this beast that the prophecy mentions?" Perhaps the little Halfling was not as shy as I first believed him to be.

"That would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age," Bofur supplied ominously. When he thought that Bilbo didn't immediately grasp what he was talking about he went on, oblivious to the growing tension around the table as well as the rapidly whitening face of the hobbit. "Air-borne fire-breather, teeth like razors, claws like meat-hooks. Extremely fond of precious metals."

"Yes, I know what a dragon is," Bilbo interrupted, wringing his hands. My heart pounded with sympathy for him. He was handling all of this far better than I did.

One of the other dwarves leapt up, proclaiming his bravery and exactly what he intended to do with the dragon but I tuned it all out as the table erupted into laughter and demeaning comments. Then someone, Balin I think – good old mister positivity – crushed their enthusiasm, or lack thereof, under his boot with a handful of blunt, though not wholly untrue, comments. When the table erupted into utter chaos I took that as my cue to answer the rising call of nature.

I stood up, shaking life back into my legs and made my way back to the bathroom. When I had finished I sat in the corner and placed my head in my hands, using the moment of quiet solitude to wonder if I really wanted to do this.

If tonight was any indication than this quest was going to drag forward a lot of unhappy memories and I found myself already well on my way to creating some nemesis' among the company. Though I was making friends as well, I had to admit. Bofur, Fili and Kili were kind to me, and treated me like another one of them. Then there was Gandalf too; more than anything I wanted to prove him right, to do my best for him after he sought me out and provided me with this opportunity.

But then, behind all of that, there was Thorin Oakenshield. The way he had looked at me, it was like there was nothing I could do, nobody I could be that would let him see me in a favourable light. From the instant he had laid eyes upon me he had judged me as unworthy of his time or respect. And that pissed me off, a lot. In the same way I wanted to prove the wizard right I wanted to prove this haughty dwarf wrong.

It was then that I realised what Gandalf had really done in bringing me on this quest. For me it wasn't about the journey or the destination. It wasn't about the promised riches at the end – for I cared naught for those – and it wasn't about me guiding the company through Mirkwood. Gandalf had given me what I had been searching for all my life; something to fight for.

And dwarves be damned, fight for it I would.

This resolution steeling me, giving me new confidence in myself, I stood up once again, taller than I ever had in my long life, though this may not have been the best thing since I was in a hobbit-hole and already had to duck through all of the doors and archways. But I walked tall and proud anyway – ducking where necessary – and strode back into the hall and to the dining room. I heard Gandalf's voice before anything else and came to stand behind Bilbo in the hall.

"-You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company and I have chosen Mister Baggins. There's a lot more to him than appearances suggest, and he's got a great deal more to offer than any of you know! Including himself." Gandalf growled.

"Do you practice these speeches?" I asked innocently, ignoring the multitude of heads that turned my way. "Or are Bilbo and I in the same boat here? Maybe this is your default speech for when you drag innocent peoples off on crazy quests across the world."

"Oh be quiet, Miss Mhyr," Gadalf huffed and I couldn't help but bark a short laugh, knowing I'd hit a bullseye with at least one of those. Gandalf chose to ignore me though, once again might I add. He then leaned in close to Thorin and spoke in his most serious tones, ignoring the anxious hobbit that was quietly bouncing up and down on his large, furry feet, as though he wanted nothing more to run and never look back. "You must trust me on this."

Thorin took a long moment in which he regarded the wizard stoically before he let out a small sigh.

"Contracts, Balin." Balin sourced two large folded pieces of parchment from somewhere in his crimson coat and stood up to pass them over.

"It's just the usual; summary of out-of-pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, funeral arrangements, so-forth." He said and passed the contracts to Thorin who passed them over his shoulder with nary a glance, pressing them into the hobbits chest, ignoring his blustery squeak of 'funeral arrangements!?' and turning back to his soup. Bilbo shot me a wide-eyed glance and passed me my own contract, after having taken a quick glance at them. I looked at the ridiculously long piece of parchment with its cursive, swirling squiggles and felt sick to my stomach. I glanced at Gandalf as something cold crept in my chest, but he took no notice of my plight.

"I don't need one, a contract I mean," I said, trying to abate the crazy roaring in my ears. "I'm just your guide through Mirkwood… nobody really."

"Everyone signs a contract." Thorin grunted into his bowl of presumably now-cold stew. I looked down at the wavy, meaningless lines and then at Bilbo, hoping he could clue me in to what it said, but I couldn't hear his quiet words over that accursed roaring in my ears.

"Mhyr?" Gandalf's voice came to me as if over a great distance, but the concern in his voice was evident nonetheless. "Mhyr what's wrong?"

Of course that got the attention of all of the dwarves and I wanted to run outside and scream to the sky. Instead I took a shaky breath and focused my gaze on him.

"It's nothing … I just – I can't…" The urge to scream was pretty overwhelming by now, though it was almost trumped by the need to pound my head against the nearest hard surface. I was sure there were tears brimming in my eyes but I fought them down valiantly. My voice sounded so wispy and pathetic. So desperate. "I can't,"

"The contract was written with your conditions in mind, girl," Thorin had turned around and was now staring at me with those hard eyes of his, like chips of ice in the candle light. I could see the gears turning behind his head and then understanding dawned in his eyes. He abandoned the stew, stood up and beckoned to me brusquely. Sheepishly I followed as he headed down the hall. We passed through an open door into a little sitting room whereupon he closed the door behind me.

Standing alone in his presence was nowhere near as daunting as I had thought it would be. He seemed to lose some of that leadership presence that tended to loom over him like a storm cloud when the others were present.

"You cannot read," he said simply, coming to stand before me. I refused to not look him in the eye and so we stood like that for a long moment and even when I answered I could not bring myself to drop his gaze.

"I cannot." I said simply. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" he asked, sounding distinctly surprised. "It is naught to be ashamed about, but your concern is understandable."

"I don't wish the others to know," I pleaded quietly.

"Again, understandable," He pondered for a moment. "I will sign the contract in your name if you wish it."

"It would be greatly appreciated. Though I care not for what it says. I understand that it's just a formality."

"Very well." He replied and quickly a quill and ink were gathered from nearby. He laid the contract down on a little side table and was ready to write within moments. Part of me was still reeling at this show of generosity and kindness. "Now, your name. Do you know how to spell it?"

I shook my head quickly and a frown creased his brow as he mulled it over.

"Might I spell it as one would among my people?" Thorin asked, which again caught me by surprise. Of course I nodded, not knowing of anything else I could do in the situation. But he pulled a small scrap of parchment and wrote the name, my name down in bold letters. I gazed at it for a moment and felt a smile tugging at my lips which I reluctantly released. I nodded once again, stronger this time. Thorin hunkered back over the contract and penned my name on the allocated line. "Have you a title, or family name? A mother's name even? Something that distinguishes you?"

"No. I have nothing. I was cast into the wilds as a child, and raised by nature herself you might say." The admission stung a little but the smile that itched beneath Thorin's short black beard soothed such a sting

"Then be known as Mhyr, daughter of the Wilds." He said simply, to which I could only nod once again. It was perfect, it was so … _me. _That was what he put down beside my name, I think, though it could really have been anything. When he had finished he blew on the ink fleetingly to ensure it dried well and then stood, returning ink and quill to their rightful places and burning the tiny scrap of parchment upon which he had first written my name in the flickering flame of one of the candles. A part of me flared up as bright as that little flame did, but then it refused to go out. I had a name that could be written, a true name. It made me feel like I was at last somebody.

"I will not tell them." Thorin told me and I realised with a start that he had already moved to the door.

"Thank you," I said quietly as he stepped out the door. He turned his head back to me and inclined it ever so slightly. The movement was so painfully familiar that I nearly fell over. Instead I maintained a collected façade. "Thankyou Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror."

His eyes narrowed me and I crossed one arm in front of my stomach and gave the tiniest of bows, for I had met his grandfather, on more than one occasion, when I was young and had returned to Dale to live for some time. I had eyed the monarch with wide-eyed curiosity as he and his guard moved through the market. When he had seen me, a scruffy lass who was skinnier than any person had a right to be, he had bought me a pie and sat with me while I ate it, much to the chagrin of his guard – though it didn't take me long to eat the delectable. Every week after that a small basket of food would be left at the shack that I called home and Thror himself had visited a handful of times.

But Erebor and Dale had been continuing to grow and then Thror had a son to raise as well. I never saw him again and left the city behind soon after. Thorin looked very much like him, though he was more refined, plainer in appearance. He had been born a prince but had been raised in the hardships on the world and it showed on him. He was a harder dwarf than his grandfather had ever been, stronger too most likely.

I shook these thoughts from my head and just provided the dwarf prince –for that is what he was, I realised now – winning and somewhat knowing smile. His eyes just narrowed even more but it wasn't malicious or piercing, it was just – well I don't really know what it was. But then Thorin nodded and turned away.

"You're welcome, Daughter of the Wilds," I heard him say as he walked away and I couldn't help the exuberant grin that split my features. I looked down at the parchment in my hands and stared at the name, _my name. _Perhaps I no longer had to be defined by my past… perhaps this was a new beginning for me.

I waited several minutes before I left the room, contract neatly folded again. I sought out Balin immediately, assuming that since he had given me the stupid thing, it was probably to him that it should be returned. I came upon him sitting in the hall, staring after Thorin who had just walked away. When he saw me approach he gave a wide smile – far friendlier than most of those I had received thus far.

"Thorin says that you signed," he stated simply and I nodded, passing the folded parchment into his outstretched hand. He opened it, glanced at the signature, smiled at me and then refolded it, tucking it away somewhere in his coat.

"You signed?" Gandalf said, approaching and standing beside us. Part of me wondered how he hadn't developed a sore neck after being hunched in this hobbit hole for so long.

"I did," I replied with a small smile. "Did you doubt me?"

"Never, my dear," he chuckled. I nodded absently, the same smile still playing about my lips. Then I looked between of them, Balin and Gandalf, perhaps the most wizened members of this company.

"I will bid you a good evening then," I inclined my head and began to step away, strangely eager for the morning and what it would bring.

"You're leaving?" Balin asked and I wondered if that was a note of worry in his voice.

"I am. I wish to be well rested for the morning." I responded. I sure as hell wasn't going to stay in this hobbit-hole with thirteen dwarves and a wizard, not to mention the owner of said hobbit hole. "But have no fear; I will re-join you in the morning. But what of Bilbo? Did he sign?"

Both wizard and dwarf still seemed confused as to why I wasn't staying but I didn't overly care. In the end it was Gandalf who answered my question.

"No he did not," he said, and looked rather put out by it to. I stifled a sigh. Perhaps it would be for the best in the end.

"Perhaps he will change his mind in the morning." I told them. "A good night's sleep does wonders for decision making."

"Perhaps he will." Gandalf mused. "Indeed I hope that will be the case."

"Maybe, but are you sure the lads really the best burglar for this quest? He seems a little … homey." I smiled at Gandalf and left, knowing it wouldn't be long before he snapped at Balin and reminded him of who was the wizard around about.

I returned to the entry hall and found my coat still hanging on its hook –not that I actually expected to go anywhere. I threw it one, taking my good sweet time about doing up the buckles. Then my blade was fixed at my hip and my sling wrapped around my waist. My pack, already prepared for the adventure ahead, was hoisted onto my shoulders. I slipped the small bar of soap I had … recovered from the bathroom into my satchel which went over my shoulder and hung at my waist.

Then I opened the door and stood still for a moment as the cold, evening air washed over me. I breathed deeply, relishing the soft scents in the cool air after spending all evening trapped inside, and then I stepped outside and onto the garden path. There were twinkling lights all over Hobbiton, shining brightly.

I was striding down the path, wondering where I was going to rest tonight, when a deep, melodious harmony floated out of one of the windows. I smiled as I passed, the rich, earthy tones of the dwarves singing feeling like melted butter on my ears. But I sobered a little, knowing this was no happy tune.

_Far over the Misty Mountains cold…_

* * *

**A/N Phew, this was one whopper stopper chapter. Well, for me anyway. I hope you enjoyed it and if you did please follow and review :D **

**As ever, forgive any mistakes. I was writing this over the weekend and had three major assignments to do as well – which is probably why this ended up having so many random plot bunnies that I did not plan.**

**I hope you like it! **

**PS – from my knowledge, Thror went to Erebor, which was already established. In the book Thorin says**: "In my grandfather Thror's time our family was driven out of the far North…" "It [Erebor] had been discovered by my far ancestor, Thrain the Old, but now they mined and they tunnelled and they made huger halls and greater workshops –"(The Hobbit, pg. 27) **So I'm going by the idea that Erebor was established as a minor mining outpost and that Dale already existed. That means I'm actually not giving you any indicators as to Mhyr's age; I'm leaving it open to interpretation mostly. So yeah, when she meets Thror she's young by **_**her **_**standards. She'd already been around for a while. **


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